Currently, my mind is a mire of stagnancy, and I blame the weather. Here is something I just wrote in place of the tale I am currently penning, as writer’s block has just shunted the story in progress out-of-the-way. This is my image of me from the perspective of my mind, specific to this time and this day. It will change within the hour. Regardless, this is me in the here and now. It is entirely unedited. I have not read it at all.

 

‘My life, akin to the million cigarettes I have smoked, each one an imitation of my life. Lit, burning, heated to ignite, to satisfy, but to last no more than a few moments, and all interest past the point extinguished, the same only remains. One life ends, and another begins. What greater metaphor to the lives I have lived, left behind, and forgotten, than my lives, and the life of the cigarette?

 

Lies and stories are all I have ever been. People, multitudinous and irrelevant have deemed me a liar throughout my tens of thousands of days on earth. Yet it is story, not a single lie, that defines me. If answer is an unanswerable fact, ones never deal in truths as they are contextual objectivity, and therefore a lie specific to perspective, then my answer will remain a tale. Each moment, wakeful and in morpheus’ dream state, is filled with the burning, seething, writhing torment of idea’s, and tales, and yarns. Filling and pressing firmly within my head, my mind, my image of self. To release and relieve the pressure of them, my reply to questions posed and pointed at me, is to answer with story, but never a lie. Those most magnificently coloured gems of tale. Some remark slithers from the lips of a two-legged beast opposite me. I watch the lips move, and then sound, the sound of whichever odious composition of sentence forming words slithers over their tongue and lip. Wavy movement of noise slides through the air, only to be snared by my ear. That din continues into my ear, striking and shaking my eardrum, causing vibration of bone, and now the recognised sound of a question strikes my mind, creating images in response to other moments from with in the memories of my million lives on earth. A spark explodes within the confines of my skull of recognition at this. My mouth begins to move, sound escapes my lips, and story is told. All regardless of whether the initiator of conversation desired truth or story as a response, as it is story they will most likely receive, but never a lie.

 

The weather burns around me as a result of an agitated mind, or rather, the mind burns in response to agitated weather. All high and low pressure systems, mountains and troughs, and all consequential specific to my mind. Crushing my spirits during low pressure systems, and then creating lift beneath my wings of self when high pressure systems banish the lows from their air spaces. All far more accurate than my recognised perceptions of the same.

Fin.’

My gauntlet to cast, is for you to click upon the picture above.

 

N.

 

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